


Location

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 'cas is dead and dean is sad' AU, Angsting, Coping Mechanisms, M/M, hurt and healing, sam is a stellar brother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-02-19 05:33:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2376653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You press your hands down on the wood, digging your fingertips into the grain. Press back, Cas. Press back if you're there.<br/>But of course, he is not. You'd cremated him, and if there was any place for him to go afterwards, he was surely attending to something more important than you, something more peaceful than you. Something heavenly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Location

Two months after he dies, you come across one of his socks in the laundry. Realizing that it was really his was easy, because his socks had more holes in them than craters on the moon, and he had carefully traced his name on the toe as if in case you or Sam accidentally take one, despite the fact that the two of you prefer socks that are generally still sock- shaped and weren't see through.

Staring at it made you think of the skinny ankles that once rode around above it, and soon after, every inch beyond that. You discover that socks have the power to turn the world around.

Clutching it in one hand gives you the power to stand straight and journey down the hallway towards his room, swimming through memories along the way. There, he used to throw his coat there. Out in the kitchen, he tried endlessly to cook breakfasts for you and Sam, and turned you into early risers in your efforts to stop the smoke alarm ( _"You can't forget you have things in the oven, Cas"_ ) He spat blood on the floor there, there. If you look you can still see the stain.

His room is how he left it. You close your eyes as you enter, sinking to your knees under the weight of the ghosts. Breathing in, you can even smell him, all wet earth and mustiness, dusty. Smelling of millions of years of age, no matter how many times you've shoved him towards the shower.

Your body sags lower to the ground until you are laying flat on your back, and you feel heavy, as if he was buried underneath the floorboards and you are straining to be nearer.

You press your hands down on the wood, digging your fingertips into the grain. Press back, Cas. Press back if you're there.

But of course, he is not. You'd cremated him, and if there was any place for him to go afterwards, he was surely attending to something more important than you, something more peaceful than you. Something heavenly.

However, you open your eyes and remember, there sitting on his bed and changing the bandages on his hands. There, hanging up old shirts on your own up in his closet, because he had none, and the sad, thankful blue of his eyes as he said he would make it up to you. You had ignored the twist in your chest it had caused. ( _"Awh, Cas you don't owe your life for a couple of shirts"_.) The pots were still there on the windowsill from when he had placed them, solemnly, and had taken pride in telling you their names, (" _Lilium, helianthus annuus, Pelargonim, cannabis stiva," "Cas! The hell made you think you could grow weed in our place, man?!_ ") There, amongst his badly- made bedspread. Your head aches around the countless times you've ran to it in the middle of the night, chased by his screams. You can see your own ghost next to his, and can feel the digging of his hands in your back and the wildness in his eyes as you fervently talk him away from things you cannot see.

Closing your eyes again, you lie there, waiting for the press back that will never come. You lie until your back aches and the sock you hold dampens with the sweat of your palm.

You lie until you hear the soft sound of Sam coming through the door and you hear his breath hitch. His steps slow, stop. There is silence for a few beats of your heart. Then, a small scuffling noise, and a sigh ruffling the air. Opening your eyes has you see Sam lying belly- up on the floor at your side, sprawled and looking at you.

"Hey."

"Hey."

You loll your head, you look back at him. "I found one of Cas's socks."

"Yeah?" He says.

"Yeah."

Sam nods, with a small frown, and turns his eyes to the ceiling. You can see his profile, deep in concentration over the cracks and bumps on Cas's ceiling. Or, maybe, he can see the ghosts, too.

You lie in silence for several minutes more, the both of you.

When the light from the window is completely gone, Sam gets to his feet. He extends a hand, and helps you up.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm floating up the stairwell  
> With my toes grazing the cedar  
> Thinking softly what a tinder box we live in  
> And what a flammable heart I've been given


End file.
